


How for everything given, that something is gained

by Kavi Leighanna (kleighanna)



Series: All The Things I Did Not See [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, bau'verse, established relationships - Freeform, relationship milestones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 07:55:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5408951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kleighanna/pseuds/Kavi%20Leighanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve really likes seeing Maria in his space.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He works Christmas Eve. Of course he does. He doesn’t have family events - no remaining Rogers family members still alive - and he knows there are other agents that do. Buck, for one – and they’ve all been carefully not talking about how Nat’s going with him this year – Lewis for another. Sam too has family in the area he’d mentioned spending the day with.

So, he’d taken the Christmas shift.

“Hey. Ready to head out?”

And no, it hadn’t had anything to do with the fact that Maria’d done the same.

There’s a simple warmth that spreads through Steve at the sound of her voice, a comfort that unknots his shoulders just a little. His smile ticks up at the corner of his mouth as he takes her in, her go bag, garment bag, computer. “Hey.”

She gives him a small smile because yeah, it must be all over his face. He’s not going anywhere any time soon. “It’s okay.” Because it always is. They understand the nature of this job, what it does. “I’ll see you at the party.”

Stark’s Christmas party, on Christmas Day. Their own version of family Christmas.

He and Maria had made plans. Good plans. Plans he’d been really looking forward to. Last Christmas, they’d been feeling around the edges of this Thing between them. Now, it’s utterly undeniable. Call him sentimental, but he’d been looking forward to his first Christmas Eve with Maria. Their quiet evening, waking up together, getting ready for the party side-by-side…

So he makes a split second decision.

He’s had the key in his desk for weeks. Bucky’s been riding him about it, about just growing a pair and handing the damn thing over. It’s not a promise or a guarantee, it’s trust and faith and yeah, okay, it’s not really a secret that those are two things that just get to Maria. But he’s also proven over the last fourteen months that he’s willing to do this at her speed. 

So yeah, he’d agonized. But they had plans and he really doesn’t want to send her to her own empty apartment. He’s been there and bless her, but the place has never felt lived in to him. Sparse and Spartan and maybe fitting to her, but he’s also seen the way tension drains out of her shoulders when she settles in the corner of his very worn couch and yeah, he kind of has a preference.

It helps that he just basically likes seeing Maria in his space.

He makes his way around the desk, key in hand and extends it to her. “Don’t go home.”

Her eyes widen as she takes in the key, her eyes flicking back up to his. “Steve.”

He wonders, not for the first time, if she realizes how much she can pack into his first name. Fear and anxiety but also a sort of awe, affection, surprise. He reaches out for her hand, turns it palm up so he can curl her fingers around the key.

“It’s not…. I’m not asking you for anything,” he says. “It’s a spare, I want you to keep it, but Maria, I’m not asking for anything.”

Her breath comes out in a shaky sort of gust and he smiles a little despite himself. He’s learned that she panics when things mean something, and the way her fingers tighten around the key speaks volumes.

Maria is about action, about moments. She’s never been about words.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he repeats quietly, steps in because they’re working on a skeleton crew at Quantico and he can. “I just… I want you to be there when I get home.”

Earnest, sincere and yeah, he knows that gets her too. He’s never been more grateful for his innate honesty than he is when it comes to his relationship with Maria.

“You’re a giant sap, Rogers.”

He grins because coming from her it really is this-close to an ‘I love you’. It does all sorts of amazing things to his insides. He can feel his fingers twitch with it, especially when she tucks the key away in her pocket. “I don’t think it’s as terrible as you make it sound.”

She rolls her eyes, but he knows. Of course he knows. So he tucks his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching for her and just grins.

“Don’t stay too late,” she says, exasperation lining every word. “I’m not waiting up for you.”

Not that he expected such. “Try and leave me some dinner anyway, huh?”

She ducks her head, but it’s too late. He’d seen her little smile. “I make no guarantees.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less. See you.”

 _At home_.

“Yeah.” And God, God, she should not be able to do that much with her voice. “See you in a couple of hours.”

 

It is long, long past dark by the time he makes it home. He’s weary, sure, because the sheer amount of paperwork he does is basically ridiculous, but there’s a gentle thrum of excitement that’s also weaving it’s way through his blood. It tilts the corner of his mouth up in a soft smile as he slides his key into the apartment door.

His eyes catch on her shoes first, just inside his dim entryway: two pairs, one a vicious red that’s going to murder him tomorrow and her utilitarian black ones. She’s anal enough about unpacking. He gets it. They spend so much time living out of suitcases it’s nice when they don’t have to. That’s the logical argument anyway.

When it comes down to it, he _really_ likes Maria in his space.

He likes her heels by the door and her coat in the closet. He likes putting away the garish Captain America mug she can’t get over using – a gag gift from Buck years and years and years ago that now he can’t get rid of, ever – and the way she tucks her clothes into his closet alongside his. And he really, really likes coming home to find her sprawled face down on the couch in yoga pants and a sweatshirt that has to be his.

Really, really likes it.

He takes his time toeing off his shoes, hangs his coat and leaves his computer bag by the tiny hall table. She doesn’t so much as shift, the light from the TV dancing over her face. He pads on soft socked feet to the kitchen, pulls open the fridge and smiles. Leftover Chinese.

He makes himself a plate, tucks it in the microwave. The sound doesn’t wake her, but he’s not surprised. It takes her forever to fall asleep but once she does, she goes deep. He takes the steaming food back to the living room, settles on the floor by her hip.

There’s nothing on this close to Christmas other than the corny movies that aren’t his thing. He settles on sports highlights, which is a generous word for the down-to-the-detail analysis of the World Junior teams. He’s not a hockey person (and maybe still smarting a little from the Mets World Series loss) but she is. The volume is low, but she’s a light sleeper and the hum plus the screen light drags her up from her nap. He hears the little moan she releases as she stretches, can picture the way her body stretches out, the way her torso twists as she chases the feeling.

He keeps his eyes fixed on the screen before he leaves his dinner to get cold on the coffee table. Just because he’s never given her a key doesn’t mean he hasn’t woken up beside her and he knows, dreams about, how delicious she looks still half asleep. He feels her fingers brush against his neck and his ear before she tangles them in his hair.

“Hi.”

He tilts his head back into the gentle scratch of her nails and the laughs a little, free in a way she never is when she’s fully awake. Sometimes it still gets caught in his chest, that he gets Maria like this.

Now he does slide his plate onto the coffee table. “Hi. Good nap.”

“Shut up.” But her eyes are closed, eyelashes fluttering against the apples of her cheeks. Steve grins at the contrast, the way she snaps awake on the job and fights against wakefulness at home. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“You never do, on the couch.” Because she inevitably wakes up with tense shoulders, a crick in her neck. “Bed?”

She hums. “Finish first.”

She hates food in bed, not that he’s a fan of it either. She keeps her hand in his hair as he eats, strokes it over his neck, his shoulders, slipping sweetly beneath the collar of his dress shirt. She swears over the Hawks loss and grumbles something about sloppy play while he finishes up. He leaves her there to clean up his dishes and smiles when she hasn’t moved by the time he comes back.

He clicks off the TV and, without asking, leans down to pick her up. She yelps and punches his shoulder while he laughs and carries her into his room. “Bed, Agent Hill.”

She snuggles so easily into the pillows for a moment before slipping beneath the sheets. By the time he’s brushed his teeth and changed into sweats, she’s already out again. So he lets himself wrap around her, wrap her up and buries his face in her hair so, so happy she’s here and only absently wondering what it would be like to have this all the time.


	2. Chapter 2

He dreams about it and it’s disgustingly domestic. The kind of domestic he would be teased mercilessly for were he to ever admit to the dream, full of cozy moments on the couch and little mindless kisses over breakfast. Date nights and coming back to a place that is Theirs, not His or Hers. It’s enough to startle him awake, utter yearning in the pit of his stomach.  

So he’s up before the sun, and despite the fact that she’s a deep sleeper, pulls open the first two drawers of his dresser silently. There’s nothing in either drawer that he’s attached to, junk drawers mostly. He doesn’t keep much in his dresser. It’s pretty easy to dump those drawers into a cloth grocery bag.

Maria sleeps through it. He’s grateful.

His closet is a different story. He keeps everything in his closet. Suits and dress shirts and sweaters folded neatly on top. He’s not a clotheshorse by any definition but he’s not really in the habit of cleaning out his closet either. He so rarely has time to clean the house, let alone go through his closet.

Doing this, giving her space, he’s not sure there’s any better reason.

He’s not sure how long he’s at it when he hears the bedclothes shift.

“What are you doing?”

He glances over his shoulder, stops dead as he watches her run a hand through her mussed hair. He folds another shirt, sets it on the pile. “Making room.”

He feels her go still, the way the feeling in the room shifts. “I thought Barnes swore he was never taking you shopping again.”

Actually, he’d looked at Maria and told her, point blank, Steve was her problem now. It was maybe not as offensive as he could have taken it.

For the first time since he’d made the decision, his stomach flips over uncomfortably. Honestly, he knows she likes the way they’re taking things at a glacial pace. He likes it too. He likes that it never feels like there’s pressure, that the decision to stay at one place or another isn’t one that requires a lot of thought, that now they don’t even have to ask about staying the night.

But sometimes, for the big things, there’s still… hesitation. Hell, he’d done it less than twenty-four hours ago with a tiny piece of metal.

He doesn’t register she’s actually out of bed until she presses his hand against his shoulder. He goes stiff, regretting it the moment she yanks her hand away like she’s been burned.

“Sorry.” An awkwardness settles around them that hasn’t been there in almost a year. “Sorry.”

“You said that,” she says, and her voice sounds awful, the kind of voice she uses when the press is being particularly frustrating and she feels like she has to tip-toe around her answers. “Is this where I’m supposed to ask what you’re making room for?”

He has to swallow before he can get is voice to work. “You. Hopefully.”

“Oh.” Her voice doesn’t sound awful anymore but she does sound stunned. It sends his heart into his stomach. “Yeah.”

“Yes?”

“Yeah,” she says quiet and almost gentle with a soft little laugh. “Steve.”

His exhale is too heavy when she drops to her knees and cups his cheeks in her palms, the relief palpable. He hates that it’s always a struggle, that when it comes to major milestones he always hesitates, always worries that it’s going to be too much for her. That he’s too much for her. That this is going to be the major thing, the major moment, that’s going to send her scurrying for the hills.

The crux of it is, when that happens, he’d chase her. He knows he would. He would have from the beginning, he thinks, all the bravado and courage in her, the determination and strength and quiet calm reserve that they really needed. Sam’s amazing, but he’s not always enough calm in their insanity.

“Steve.”

This one is sterner, surer. Her eyes are the clear blue that says she’s so, so positive of what’s coming out of her mouth next.

“You know I’m in this, right?”

His chest clenches and he finds himself fleetingly wondering if he’s having a heart attack on Christmas Day. He knows, of course, in the way that there’s just a confidence in how he interacts with her, the way he brushes past her. But then he has these moments, these flashbacks to the first time they slept together and the utter panic that had driven her into the bathroom instead of curling in for a lazy round two.

“Steve,” she says again. “Don’t lose faith in me now.”

He can’t stop the way he reaches for her. She squeaks as she tumbles into his lap, off-balance and unprepared. “Not you. Never you.”

She huffs, jams an elbow into his kidneys on purpose as she straightens herself. Then she pauses there, steady. “You really thought I was going to say no?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, dropping his head into her shoulder. “It’s big.”

Her arms come up around his shoulders. “Rogers, you haven’t scared me in a long time.”

“I almost got stabbed in the prison riot last week.”

He’s not sure where it comes from, but she bursts into almost hysterical laughter. It’s enough to lighten the mood, to give them both a chance to breathe. As they settle he nudges at her chin until she tips her head enough to get his mouth on hers. It’s smooth and light, contact and connection.

“I want you to have a drawer in my dresser. And my bathroom. And room here for your work suits. I don’t want you to have to bring a bag every single time,” Steve says when they pull apart, his hands light on her back.

“It’ll be nice, not living out of a bag.”

The thrill races through him, the picture of her clothes in his closet. He wants her shoes neat by the door, but haphazard in the bottom of his closet. He wants to find her ratty Marines t-shirt in his laundry. God, he wants to _do_ her laundry, since he knows for a fact that she’s so busy with work she sends her laundry out.

She laughs into his vicious kiss, lets him have all the control, lets him move her head, shift her more completely into his lap. He pulls back for air and presses his mouth immediately to her neck.

“Is this where you start feeling guilty about making a big deal out of it?”

He laughs into her shoulder and slips his hand beneath the t-shirt she’d slept in. “This is where I take you back to bed.”

He knows she’s not going to argue with that.


End file.
